


no matter what

by remy (iamremy)



Series: askbox prompts (multifandom) [21]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU where jonerys is not a thing, Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, M/M, Post-Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 19:24:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21325390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamremy/pseuds/remy
Summary: szamanita asked:prompt for you! The one scene we all know that should be there, Jon and Tormund kissing during the battle.
Relationships: Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow
Series: askbox prompts (multifandom) [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1490804
Comments: 4
Kudos: 112





	no matter what

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Louhetar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Louhetar/gifts).

Viserion crumples, comes crashing to the ground, and Jon understands, in a rush of adrenaline – it’s over. His little sister’s done it. It’s over.

For a few moments he just sits there, shielded behind the debris of his home, legs outstretched in front of him as he tries to catch his breath. He is only dimly aware of the battle winding down around him, of the shouting and footsteps. There seems to be a haze between him and the world, and it feels like everything is reaching him through a fog, filtered and unreal.

Then a body covered in furs rushes past, and Jon snaps back to his senses, the aftermath of the battle rushing back in and crowding his senses. He staggers to his feet, using Longclaw for balance, and all around him he can see the collapsed wights, the exhausted survivors, and – his heart jumps to his throat – so many corpses. So many fallen.

His eyes rove all over them, searching for… he’s not quite sure. Arya he knows is fine, and if she is fine then Bran must be, too. Sansa is down in the crypts. The last he’d seen of the Dragon Queen had been when outside the walls of Winterfell. For just a moment Jon is torn, not knowing where to go – and then he turns, feet taking him towards the crypts without waiting for input from his brain.

His gaze keeps wandering, picking out familiar faces around him – more dead than alive – but he still doesn’t know what exactly he’s looking for.

Not till he finds him.

Tormund is standing in the beginning of a deserted, broken down hallway, sword in hand, chest heaving. There is a cut on his face that is frighteningly close to his eye, and it is slowly dripping blood down his face and into his beard. His expression is feral, twisted with adrenaline – but it softens when he looks up and meets Jon’s eyes.

Jon stops abruptly, feeling the world fade out again, the noise dying down in his ears. Tormund looks, for the most part, unharmed, though his armor is damaged. Jon can see every place where Tormund came close to losing his life, or being injured horrifically. It makes him uncomfortably aware of his own heart, beating away rapidly inside his chest.

“Little crow!” Tormund greets exuberantly when Jon is near enough to hear him.

“Tormund,” says Jon, and his steps quicken. “_Tormund_.”

“Aye,” says the wildling, moving his hair out of his face with a shake of his head. “Aye, Jon—”

Jon grabs his arm with his free hand the second he’s close enough to do so. “Are you—are you all right, Tormund?”

“Aye,” repeats Tormund. “It’ll take more than some dead fuckers to take me down. You?”

“I’m all right,” Jon says. He lets go of Tormund’s arm and raises a shaky hand to the cut on his brow. Tormund lets him, his gaze surprisingly soft as he watches Jon, completely at odds with his battle-worn appearance.

“It’s over now,” he says, and grabs Jon’s hand in his. “It’s all over.”

Jon lets out the breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. “Yes,” he says, dimly registering that his face is inches from Tormund’s. “Yes, it is.”

Tormund smiles, slow but sure, and Jon can’t help it – he leans in, and presses his lips to Tormund’s without giving it a single thought.

The wildling responds instantly, not seeming at all surprised. He drops his sword with a _clang_ so that he can put both arms around Jon, his embrace strong and secure. Jon lets himself be held, lets Tormund take control of the kiss, feels his heart slow, and concentrates on nothing but getting through all the emotions coursing through him – relief, and fatigue, and overwhelming gratitude at the fact of both of them having made it, having survived to stand here and have this moment.

They stop only when Jon is too out of breath to continue. With a sigh he separates from Tormund, but doesn’t go too far, instead leaning into Tormund’s body and touching his forehead to Tormund’s, eyes closed.

Tormund lets out a little chuckle, the sound vibrating in his chest. “Sweet crow,” he murmurs fondly, raising one hand to put it on the back of Jon’s head. “You must be tired.”

“Yes,” confesses Jon in a whisper. Like it’s something he’s not allowed to be.

“Rest,” says Tormund, like it’s that simple. To the Free Folk, it is. When they’re hungry, they eat. When they’re tired, they rest. When they’re angry, they fight. They don’t deal in lies and horseshit the way everyone else does, and Jon envies them so much for it.

“I can’t,” he says, and pulls away reluctantly. He opens his eyes to see Tormund looking at him with immeasurable softness in his expression. “I’ve got to find Sansa, and make sure Arya and Bran are all right, and—”

“Then let me come with you,” says Tormund simply. He does not argue or even hesitate, and Jon’s heart swells with appreciation and gratitude for the man.

“You should rest,” he says, a cursory protest.

“Hah! It’ll take more than some dead cunts to tire me out,” says Tormund, and smirks. “I’m coming with you, Jon.”

“Tormund—”

“Did I not promise to follow you no matter what, Jon Snow?” And now Tormund looks completely serious.

“Yes, but—”

“Do not make a liar out of me,” interrupts Tormund.

“Fine,” acquiesces Jon. On a whim he leans in and pecks Tormund’s lips once before finally, unwillingly, letting go of him.

“Good,” says Tormund with approval, and releases Jon from the embrace. Jon only has a second to feel melancholy about the loss of contact – Tormund bends to pick up his sword, and then stands and promptly slides his free arm around Jon’s narrower shoulders. “Come on then. Let’s go search for that sister of yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> feedback would be lovely! thank you!
> 
> love,  
remy


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